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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248123">In Vino</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken'>Davechicken</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:47:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,741</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When in Rome, do not become an aardvark.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>120</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In Vino</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lychoubi/gifts">Lychoubi</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23213137">Let's please ourself. (Go nsfw art)</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lychoubi/pseuds/Lychoubi">Lychoubi</a>.
        </li>

    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been a truly, truly awful day. Week. Decade… whatever. Whenever Crowley was in a bad mood, he was In A Bad Mood, and for the duration of it, he could remember nothing but the annoyance or frustration of the moment. Dimly, he’d be aware that - in some way - things had been better before. But knowing it was like knowing the sun was still there when it slunk below the horizon.</p><p>You remembered it, but the heat was gone. You knew your way around in the dark, and it felt like darkness had always been there, and light would never come back.</p><p>That did, however, mean that when the good days came, they could equally feel like they’d never left, and never could. It was as if his thinking-head and feeling-head were two different entities, and he was a barrel of neuroses that flickered between those poles and attempted to remain functional.</p><p>It had been awful.</p><p>Had been.</p><p>Close enough that the amphora of wine in front of him had been purchased as a drown-your-sorrows mechanism, and probably held those sorrows more efficiently than his sieve-like heart.</p><p>The angel had waltzed in. Or been there. Or - or - something. All radiant and glowing and bristling like a blooming flower shaking off the night’s dew and lifting his head to the sun and demanding it worship his glowing face. </p><p>Firstly, it had been an annoyance. Other people were not allowed to be happy if he was miserable. It wasn’t fair, and he had to bring them to his -- to --</p><p>The damnable (or, more properly, undamnable) thing had to go and coo and bounce and wriggle and just look so pleased with himself. And say those blasted things. Say he was - say <b>he</b> was going to tempt him. No apples, but oysters were round-ish, right? And hey, no one really ever asked him to dinner. Even if they wanted something from him, he was always a little bit too different to be welcomed, and here was an angel inviting him and throwing around frankly <i>irresponsible</i> words.</p><p>And just like that, Crowley’s day (week, month, millennium) had gone from ‘awful’ to ‘interesting’. Not quite ‘pleasurable’ or ‘nice’ (over-used word, but what have you), at least not right away. </p><p>But.</p><p>Interesting, interesting most definitely.</p><p>The wine became shared (they both had their own, but the amphora ended up traded back and forth, and the replacements were just ‘theirs’, and glasses clinked with increasing messiness, dribbles of red that circled a wrist and provoked a tongue to lick…)</p><p>The inn became redundant (they needed the oysters, and the oysters needed a couch, and they reclined on the couches and consumed the oysters. Or, Crowley tried to, decided he didn’t want to, and enjoyed watching the angel’s throat work and his lips twist and his chest sigh…)</p><p>And the night became thicker with oil-lamps and humming insects, and the talk of everything and nothing, and the smear of wine that turned the edge of the angel’s smile into a sad droop so he--</p><p>He--</p><p>His thumb. Smearing up the dribble, ending up at the corner of the angel’s mouth, their eyes meeting as he realised his transgression. But didn’t move his hand.</p><p>Aziraphale turning his head, kissing the thumb-pad thank-you. Long lashes and a question and an answer in one. </p><p>Crowley had pulled back, but he wasn’t sure why. His heart racing, his head swimming, the laurel wreath feeling uncomfortably like Atlas’ globe, or the world tree, or…</p><p>The angel had looked disappointed, and hidden it in his chalice. He’d been offering. All this time, offering. And Crowley hadn’t dared listen.</p><p>Which threatened to make the day bad-then-good, then the evening good-then-bad. Which was a shit sandwich any way you looked at it, and he would rather instead it was something closer to baklava. Without the shit. </p><p>“I should get us some water…”</p><p>Aziraphale had started to flee, but Crowley was quick, when he wanted to be. And he often wanted to be, but normally to run away himself. </p><p>This time, he had the angel backed into the doorway, standing close, hand around his wrist. “Angel…”</p><p>“Crowley, I’m capable of getting water without you holding my hand.”</p><p>Mistake. Error. Mistake. His serpent-brain kicked into overdrive, remembering <i>enemy</i>, remembering <i>demon</i>. Why was he doing this? Because of one look?</p><p>No, he told himself. Not one look. Several. Glancing, fleeting, or caught in reflections. Offers of aphrodisiacs. Warm greetings. Open houses. Something - something that they shouldn’t be, and were anyway.</p><p>“I know you are.” </p><p>He could pull away, Crowley told himself. The angel could pull back, or scold, or-- anything, to show he didn’t want this. But he didn’t. He didn’t.</p><p>The pause became too long to be normal, and so Crowley lowered his head to glance over his glasses. “You had more wine-stains,” he lied, and leaned in to swipe his tongue at the crease of the angel’s cheek.</p><p>It tasted… much like licking himself (when cleaning). There were no bolts from the sky. No taste of ambrosia. No… anything, but the influx of breath that sucked the air from between them, and pulled him in closer.</p><p>“Crowley…”</p><p>Aziraphale was trying to sound scandalised, but it wasn’t working. He was sounding… hungry. Longing. Lonely. </p><p>Crowley should have said something, or done something, or - anything but what he did do. He leaned down as the angel leaned up, and then there were lips trying to find where they fit. Tilting, and turning, and then slotting together. Teeth that didn’t know and then tongues that decided for them, and Aziraphale melted back as if he’d wanted that all along, but couldn’t ask.</p><p>All those glances. All those looks. The nips to his own lips, which Crowley now soothed better and made deeper with his own, sharp bites. He tasted of those oysters, and a knee between his thighs told him yes, most assuredly the angel knew enough to know enough.</p><p>He was there, he was present, he was <i>male</i>, and most definitely interested. A hand ran down the angel’s throat, pushing away fabric, needing warm skin under his palm. All through his ribcage, the angel’s heart pounded, and Crowley didn’t care if this was a bad idea or not. All of his ideas were bad, on one level, so why let this be any different?</p><p>The thighs he’d splayed around his own tensed, a rocking where Aziraphale sought friction, and it told him yes, yes this was right. Yes, it was wanted. Yes, he should.</p><p>Should reach down, and push and pull. Pull his own - very eager - cock out. Brush it against the other’s toga, and hiss at the roughness of the white fabric. Find an answering erection, and capture it in his fist. </p><p>They fit so snugly together, warm, soft, hard. Eager. The angel melting like wax above a candle, his chest heaving and his lips panting out his need. Those long lashes hiding his eyes, but not the blush on his cheeks. </p><p>He wanted this. Didn’t he? Not just because it was a good sensation, but because… because… it was him?</p><p>Crowley’s hand tightened further, his strokes becoming harsh. Claiming. Fierce, possessive, demanding. He wanted the angel’s whimpers, his little, broken ruts. His hand came up, grabbing a shoulder, as his eyes looked down to where their bodies joined. </p><p>The demon wanted… him. Fuck. But it was him. Even before he’d known what lust was - maybe before it even existed - he’d craved his company, his attention, his… affection? No! No! Demon!</p><p>It… he…</p><p>Aziraphale twined into his own toga, riding the course of his palm, sliding through chasms that kept them as close as they were distant. Just shocks of physical, material satisfaction. No different to a rich glass of wine. To a warm loaf of bread. (Except it was. He knew it was. They both knew it was.) Bleated, plaintive wishes for it to be only like the food, the drink. Hedonism for the sake of it.</p><p>It would be easier, to claim it was. That it meant nothing. That <i>they</i> meant nothing. As he wondered how long his knees would hold, as he pushed his thumb below the crown, finding a spot that made his own back twitch as if it needed to let go of legs and go back to one, undulating rush.</p><p>Close. So close.</p><p>Just the wine. Just the oysters. Just the body.</p><p>Aziraphale wouldn’t even say that if he didn’t believe it was otherwise. If there was nothing to excuse, there was no need for an excuse. His lips ploughed by teeth as his leg lifted, wrapped around Crowley, surrendering his sure footing for the ability to ride out the bliss.</p><p>And he did. He found it first, hand moving into red hair as his body convulsed and came apart. Wordlessly gasping out his enjoyment and his appreciation, burying his nose into tumbling red locks. </p><p>Fuck it! Fuck him! Fuck everything! Crowley was angry, as much as relieved, when the crest of his own climax came. Angry, because he knew they’d ignore this all over. Angry, because he wanted to wrap a cloak around him, and take him to bed, and take him properly.</p><p>He knew there were ways. He’d seen them scrawled over walls. Seen them in the gloaming of alleyways. Seen them in quiet corners of his own mind. Filthy, fierce couplings…</p><p>(Softer, sweeter ones. Radiant like the morning sun creeping rosily through deft curls. The bounce of a mattress, the chime of a happy laugh…)</p><p>But he had the remorseful spill of a drunken angel, and his hand was sticky with them both.</p><p>He should let the clothing fall. Skulk back to the table, and let the angel fetch the water. Maybe leave, whilst they both had their dignity intact, and the angel could put it down to being seduced for pleasure. Could blame it on a demon who just wanted to scratch an itch.</p><p>Could hide it until it became too much to bear, again.</p><p>As he thought his options through, sweat cooling under his balls, over his brow, he felt a simple gesture.</p><p>Fingers, curled around his wrist. Not demanding, like his had been. But soft, soft like the morning sun not sure if the moon had yet gone to bed. Asking, like eyes that asked a thumb to stay.</p><p>Crowley wasn’t sure he could meet those eyes. If he did, he knew he’d never leave again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For Lychoubi's lovely art. Bisous! </p><p>And should anyone want to say nice things or prompt nice things - take pity on a stuck-at-home nerd...</p></blockquote></div></div>
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